


The Fire Escape

by sunsetmog



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, kilt, minor Bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-19
Updated: 2004-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Billy wears a kilt and Dom is very aware of how that makes him feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fire Escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abbichicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/gifts).



> Originally posted March 23rd 2004 [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/7639.html).
> 
> Original notes: "This, my friends, is my very first NC-17. So if you know me in real life and choose to read this, don't tell me. I'll blush. No, really.
> 
> I entirely blame abbichicken for this, as she coerced me into writing it and then stayed up all night to offer advice. *And* she let me use her journal as my own personal word processor. *And* she was working the next day."

Dom never knew he had a thing for knees. Bare knees. Bare, Hairy knees. He'd never known because up until now, he'd never seen Billy in a kilt. 

All he could say was that he was glad he was sitting down. Behind a table. With a full pint in front of him. And this was how he was going to stay, because he was buggered if he was standing up and revealing just how much the sight of his best mate's bare legs had affected him. 

That was, of course, until the DJ (rotten, horrible, stinking, nasty, cunty DJ) had put on Tiffany, and before he knew it, Billy had cocked an eyebrow, nodded towards the dance floor, and grabbed his arm.

There hadn't been time to refuse, so now Dom was stuck on the dance floor, which was, of course, packed, because _'I think we're alone now'_ always packs a dance floor, and he was definitely too close to Billy and that damned kilt.

And fucking, bloody, shitty Billy wasn't helping either, catching his eye and winking, and pulling him closer to whisper in his ear, "Looking a bit shell-shocked there, Dom. You alright?"

To which Dom had attempted to formulate a reply that didn't sound like 'You. Outside. Naked. Now'.

It was only when Billy raised an eyebrow that Dom realised he'd spoken out loud. 

Which was, of course, the point when Dom went completely red from the tips of his ears to the ends of his fingers, and Billy burst out laughing, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. "Are you asking or telling, Dom?"

Dom opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it again, blushes. And all this time, Billy is staring at him, eyes wide, a smile playing on his lips. His spare hand slides around Dom's waist, and Dom thanks God (all the Gods, everything, nature, karma, whatever, he just thanks) that there is still enough room to swing a cat on the dance floor because otherwise Billy is going to be perfectly aware of what Dom wants without him even having to utter another word.

Which, Dom tells himself after a moment, is perhaps exactly what should happen. 

Dom pulls Billy close - as close as he can without losing his balance and falling backwards, which would just completely break the mood and leave him horny and hard on the sticky dancefloor - and puts his mouth to Billy's ear. And breathes. His hand slips down to Billy's arse, and the kilt feels rough and thick beneath his fingers, and he can feel Billy's sharp intake of breath as the pressure of his hand inches Billy that little bit closer. "What do you think, Billy," Dom murmurs, and his erection is pressing against Billy's leg, "Am I asking or telling?"

"I'd say," Billy mutters, pressing his (kilt-clad) hips against Dom's, and pulling his head back so Dom can feel Billy's hot breath against his cheek, "I'd say you were telling me."

And then Dom realises he's not the only one who would have had cause to feel embarrassed should this not have gone according to plan - for Billy's hard beneath the kilt too, hard and hot, as Dom finds out as his fingers rake down Billy's bare arm, and the kilt brushes against his jeans. 

"So what the fuck are you waiting for, Monaghan," Billy mutters, grabbing Dom's (hot and sweaty) hand. "Shouldn't you be dragging me off the dancefloor just about now?"

Dom's eyes widen. "Fuck, yes." And Dom realises that this might be the most surreal experience of his life so far, because half an hour ago, he was just on a night out with some friends, and half an hour ago, he wasn't getting hot and bothered (and very, very hard, he reminds himself) and obsessed with (bare and hairy) knees, and half an hour ago, he wasn't feeling up his best mate, and half an hour ago he wasn't grabbing that same best mate by his (also hot and sweaty) hand and fighting his way off the dance floor, sending innocent clubbers flailing off into the night. Although admittedly, the (actually rather good, certainly very handsome and definitely talented) DJ had started to play early Take That, so if you were on the dancefloor to that, Dom told himself, you deserved to take an early flight to the floor. 

Billy kisses him by the gents' loos. Says "Dom" in that voice of his, that Scottish one, the one that Dom has never really thought was overtly sexy before, but that he now thinks might be hottest thing he's ever heard, enough to send him spiralling into the abyss. Says "Dom" and just stops walking, stock still in the corridor, people on both sides and drinks everywhere. Stops walking, but doesn't wait for Dom to turn around. Just pushes him against the wall, meets his eyes for a split second and kisses him. Kisses him hard, forcing Dom's lips to part and Dom to gasp right into the kiss. 

"Fuck, yes," Dom breathes, again, because fucking hell, if he can't think of anything else to say that even vaguely sums up the situation. And, he reasons, (although 'reason' is perhaps too strong a term) that if he could, then he should be back out on the dancefloor eyeing up some dumb blonde—who, he hopes, wouldn't have hairy knees, - and just the thought of Billy and the kilt and the bare knees is enough to make him arch upwards and his hands to reach for Billy's touch. Billy's shirt is the green one, thick cotton, soft to the touch from considerable overuse. But Dom isn't interested in Billy's clothing habits, because now Billy's hands are in his hair, and for the first time in heaven knows how long, Dom isn't swatting those hands away and yelling 'mind the hair, idiot,'—he's murmuring into Billy's kiss, and his hand is slipping up and under that very same shirt, till his fingers meet hot skin, and as Billy moans, the whole world stops. 

"Fucking hell." Billy's pulling away, taking hold of Dom's hand and (almost ripping it out of the socket) dragging him away down the corridor by his arm, "Where the bloody sodding shitting hell is the exit in this place?"

Dom shrugs, because he's trying desperately to rearrange his trousers to make them even an iota more comfortable (he entirely blames Orlando for forcing him to wear such tight, hip hugging jeans, and when he next sees Orlando he's going to beat him with a very large stick; clearly Orli hadn't thought through the consequences of confining yourself within such tight boundaries when you're hotter and harder than any time you can remember), whilst trying not to bump into other couples who have had just the same idea as him and Billy. 

The fire escape is hidden beneath a flight of stairs, and they duck under a banner advertising a traffic lights evening for the following night. 

"What colour are you, Dom," Billy asks suddenly, pushing open the fire door and shivering at the blast of cold, wet air that hit them both, shivering and yanking Dom through the door.

"Depends who's asking," Dom mutters, skidding out onto the fire escape. His fingers find the buttons on Billy's shirt, and with a shaking hand, he tries to find skin whilst pushing Billy up against the wall. 

"I'm asking," Billy mumbles, his fingers in Dom's hair, and his breath on Dom's face.

"Green." Dom murmurs, his hand resting on Billy's stomach, feeling the hair beneath his fingers. It should feel odd, he tells himself, but it doesn't. It fucking turns him on. So much so that when he kisses Billy it's with such force that Billy's head hits the wall behind him, there's a meeting of teeth and tongue and the taste of blood, and Billy hisses into his mouth. But when Dom makes to move away, Billy's fingers grip him like iron and Dom has no choice but to kiss him again. "If you're asking, I'm green," he mutters, tasting blood and pushing—pushing hard—against Billy until there was nowhere for either of them to go, and his hand rests against the cold, wet brick wall. "So what colour are you then, Bills?" Dom breathes, trailing his tongue across Billy's cheek, resting for a moment by his ear, feeling Billy squirm at his hot breath.

Billy doesn't say anything, just grabs Dom's face with one hand and kisses him again, feeling heat and warmth and wetness, and it's all he can do to contain himself because, it's, well, _Dom_ and who wouldn't fucking almost come if he was biting your earlobe and whispering "fucking, yeah" in your ear whilst pressing his thigh against your erection. _Grinding_ his thigh against your erection and laughing in your ear, and slipping his hand flat against your stomach, and just, just well, touching. "Green." Billy murmurs, and he can feel sweat bead on his forehead, "If I was a traffic light, I'd be sodding green."

And Dom laughs, because it's _Billy_ , and Billy always makes him laugh, whether he's making you a cup of tea and complaining about _Neighbours_ , or biting your lip and licking your nose and—oh shit—trying to get into your jeans with one hand.

Dom is never one to be outdone, so he thinks this is the perfect time to try and get into Billy's pants. But getting into a kilt is harder than it seems, (or so it appears to Dom) because the bottom of the kilt is way down _there_ whereas Dom is way up _here_ and he's occupied, kissing Billy and pushing him back harder against the wall every time Billy makes a half-arsed attempt to rip open the buttons of Dom's obscenely tight jeans. And it occurs to Dom that perhaps their inexperience in this department is making things a bit more difficult than is strictly necessary. It occurs to Dom, but he is rather sidetracked at the moment, licking the underside of Billy's chin and feeling the sharp intakes of breath every time Dom's tongue makes contact with hot, damp skin. It occurs to Dom that Billy is just as nervous as he is, and Billy has buttons to contend with, whilst Dom is having problems just negotiating the kilt. And that is, in effect, a skirt. "Fuck it," he mumbles finally, dragging his hands off of Billy. He undoes his own top button and raises an eyebrow at Billy. "Is that what you were trying to achieve, Bills?"

Billy takes a deep breath. "Pretty much," he mutters, reaching for the jeans and dragging Dom closer, kissing Dom hard and fast and tasting blood again as their teeth clash. He groans as he slips his hand inside the jeans, freeing Dom's hard cock from its (rather painful) confines. 

Dom's moan and subsequent forcing of Billy back against the wall is enough to make Billy realise that come the morning, he's going to be fucking covered in bruises. Well, he tells himself, (as his fingers explore the length of Dom's erection, and he feels Dom's ragged breathing against his neck as his fingers stroke the damp head), he isn't going to be the fucking only one. Billy's got one hand gripping Dom's wrist, the grip tightening with every stroke of his other hand, as Dom groans into his shoulder, the sweat from his forehead against his neck. Dom's both hard and oh-so soft at the same time, and for Billy who has never done this to anyone bar himself, the feeling is enough to make him crave the same attention. He rubs his thumb over the head, feeling Dom mutter "fuck" against his cheek. His thumb is wet with pre-come and it's all Billy can do not to groan himself. _He_ wants an opportunity to mutter 'fuck' against someone else's cheek, and he speeds up his attack on Dom's cock, his thumb grazing the tip as he throws his head back, staring up at the night sky. And all the time he can feel Dom's hot breath against his neck, hear him moaning with the stroke of Billy's hand, and despite the fact the night is shitting bricks and its fucking brass monkeys, the sweat is coming off them both like steam and they're surrounded by a haze of heat. Dom's breathing is becoming more laboured with every moment, and Billy is staring across at him, their eyes meeting, and Billy is struck with the terrifying realisation that he is wanking off his best mate on a fire escape, and—fucking hell—its better than he could ever have imagined. Fucking, sodding, shitting, cunting hell—he'd never have imagined this—it's better than _anything_ he could have imagined. 

But then Dom is saying his name, is saying "Billy, Billy, Billy" and he's just _looking_ at him, and Billy feels the warm, wet spurt of come across his hand, and the night which had previously been a series of staccato moments for Dom was becoming fluid once more. 

Billy is thinking (although thinking is, again, a strong term for what Billy's brain is actually achieving at this point in time) that watching Dom come might well have been the single most erotic, sexiest, hottest moment of his entire life when he realises he's wiped his hand across his kilt. His hired kilt. Fuck. Dry-cleaning a kilt was virtually as expensive as sodding buying a new one, and why, why, why had he not worn his own that evening? 

But then, he hones in on the fact that Dom is leaning against him, jeans still open, his fingers twisted into Billy's short hair, his breath warm against Billy's face. It then comes to his attention that Billy has, for reasons hitherto unknown, just licked his own (still slightly damp) thumb. What has recently become fluid for Dom suddenly becomes ever so staccato for Billy. 

"Dom?" He mutters, trying not to notice the fact that whilst a kilt wouldn't confine you in the same way as a pair of trousers, it was still undeniably true that Billy was still hot, hard, erect, horny and desperate for some form of release, and soon. Which would explain why he was currently humping Dom's leg, grinding slowly against the rough denim of Dom's (obscenely tight yet perfectly formed) jeans. 

"Uh-huh?" 

"For fuck's sake finish me off, will you? Else I may well be forced to kill you." There's a hint of desperation beneath Billy's voice, and he really feels it's true—if somebody (Dom) didn't touch his cock soon (now) then he might just have to wank himself off on a fire escape, and he can't think of anything he'd rather less do, despite desperation being a rather strong force of nature. 

Dom laughs, and raises his eyes to meet Billy's. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're fucking sexy, Billy?" he murmurs.

"Quite a few people actually," Billy mutters, his breathing harsh and short as he continues to grind against Dom's leg. 

"But," Dom continues, blinking slowly, "did anyone ever tell you just how fucking amazing you are?" Dom smiles, his fingers stroking Billy's cheek, "Just how hot you are?"

"Dominic," Billy grinds out, "What the fuck do you think you're playing at..."

Dom grins, and bites Billy's earlobe. "You're really quite biteable, in fact." Billy's sharp intake of breath is enough encouragement for Dominic, whose fingers are still stroking Billy's cheek, "And really, did anyone ever tell you that you're fucking _edible_ in a kilt?" 

Billy can't help but groan, but every time he tries to sort himself out, every time he tries to rub himself off on Dom's handily placed leg, Dom grins, shakes his head and inches backwards. 

"Dommie... please." 

Dom kisses him again, hot and hard against the wall, Billy breathing hard against Dom, begging him over and over and over just to finish him off, just to let him come, but he can't form the words because Dom has his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently until the lip splits and Billy can once again taste his own blood. 

Billy had never thought that this might be his thing. He'd never thought that a bit of mutual wanking on a fire escape on a sweaty freezing night outside a club with a bit of blood and a lot of touching was the way he wanted it. But Billy can't remember the last time he was this hard, and this desperate, and this needy... and he can't remember whether that's because he's so turned on his memory is fucked or because he's never been this horny before. Either way, he's got to touch himself soon or he'll fucking explode. "Fucking hell," he mutters, pulling away from Dom's (tantalisingly long) tongue and reaching down to get his troublesome kilt out of the way. 

But before Billy could even get a hold of his kilt, Dom's got both his hands in a vice-like grip and is holding them above his head. 

"No," he says gently—and his voice might be soft but the grip on Billy's wrists is fucking tight, and Billy winces—"Let me. I want to see what my Scotsman has got on under his kilt." His grip loosens and his eyes meet Billy's. "Let me," he repeats softly, and he kisses Billy, but this time there isn't any of the hardness or quickness of the previous times. 

Billy nods, all the time thinking that he's going to be covered in fucking bruises in the morning, and furthermore wondering why that doesn't appear to be bothering him in any way, shape or form. Of course, that could be because Dominic is on his knees in front of him, his fingers gripping the edge of the material, and Billy knows that Dom will be surprised because of its weight. And then Dom's lifting the kilt, finding out that Billy is a true Scotsman in all senses of the word, and he can hear Dom's breathing falter suddenly, and their eyes meet over a red tartan. 

Dom grins. "No pants, Billy. I wouldn't have thought that of you."

"Dominic," Billy howls, and Dominic laughs. 

Dom's never sucked a man's cock before. He's never even been this close to an erect penis that wasn't his own before. And suddenly, here he is, on his knees on wet ironwork, faced with Billy's cock bobbing about two inches from his nose. 

And he can't imagine anywhere he'd rather be. 

It's a tentative touch at first. Lips against taut, damp skin. Billy's harsh breath is enough to suggest to Dom that he's going in the right direction, and he ventures a touch with his tongue. Licks up the underside of the shaft, tastes Billy in the dampness at the tip. Tastes Billy. His face suggests some antipathy towards the idea; he's not (yet) entirely keen on experiencing the flavour of another man's come. He's seen the films, he's had the girls that spit. He braces, and tastes. But it isn't anything like how he imagined it to be, it just tastes and smells like sex, and sex with Billy is something he's rapidly coming around to. 

Soft kisses up Billy's erection. Flickering licks. Dom could get used to this. Could pretty much do this regularly, should the situation call for it. But then Billy's crying his name and even though Billy still isn't voicing his _other_ desires, Dom can hear it in his voice. Dom can feel it in the scrape of fingernails against his scalp. He takes Billy in whole, and if Dom were capable of rational thought processes at this point in time, he would realise just how isolated this moment in time is. 

Billy's hands scrape at his hair, cup his head and scratch at his neck. And all the time Dom can feel what he's doing to Billy, can feel the pressure building in him as his breathing alters and his hands curl in Dom's hair. Dom's forehead touches the bunched up tartan in his own hand, and then, suddenly, the fingers in Dom's hair strain and freeze, and Dom is swallowing—not spitting, but swallowing, and if he were able to halt time and step outside the box for a moment, he'd smile and realise that the rightness of this moment far outweighs the wrongness of any previous time. 

The night is silent, but for Billy's heaving breaths and Dom's heartbeat, loud against the wet sky. 

"Dom," Billy murmurs, and he grabs hold of Dom's shirt collar and yanks him to his feet, Dom wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve as he does so. "Dominic."

Dom smiles, his eyes meeting Billy's warm, exhausted ones. Their foreheads touch, and Billy grins. 

"I didn't see _that_ coming when I hired the kilt..." Billy murmurs, his lips grazing Dom's forehead. 

"I didn't see any of it coming," Dom admits, his hands slipping around Billy's waist, for the first time pulling him away from the wall and into his arms. His lips rest momentarily on Billy's earlobe. 

Billy shrugs, his head slipping onto Dom's shoulder. "Me neither."

"Tired?" Dom asks, kissing Billy softly. 

"Thirsty." Billy smiles and grabs Dom's hand. "Let's go grab a beer. And then we can go home."

"We?" Dom grins. "Are you asking or telling?"

"Telling, Dominic." Billy pulls open the door to go back inside, "I'm fucking telling you."


End file.
